Landlord Wars(45)

“You can cook?” I said lamely.

“Passably. You have plans later?”

“No,” I said before thinking better of it. “But—”

“In an hour, then.” He opened the front door to leave, but before he exited, he leaned into the doorjamb, raking his gaze over me, mouth curved up in a sensual smile. “It’s casual. You don’t even have to put your bra back on.”

He knew! Heat flooded my face as Landlord Devil closed the door.

What was happening?

I liked food, and I wasn’t a fan of cooking. It was the only reason I was considering ignoring Max’s questionable behavior and having dinner with him. This would be payback for all the expensive chocolate he stole. It had nothing to do with the fact I couldn’t stop looking at the slice of flesh he’d revealed, or the manly stubble next to those silky lips that had set my entire body on fire the other night.

I would not be seduced by Max Burrows.





Chapter Twenty-One





Sophia





An hour later, I’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt, along with my tennis shoes. Max had said it was casual, and I saw no reason to try to impress him. This was me foraging for a life-sustaining meal, and nothing more.

I checked my hair and makeup in my phone camera—I’m not a total savage; I’d applied lipstick—and knocked on his door.

Two minutes later, I was still waiting. What was taking him so long? I knocked a second time.

It wasn’t a good sign that he was making me wait outside, reminding me that I needed to set mental ground rules.

There would be no kissing. I would eat Max’s food because he owed me, and I was hungry. We could be friends—I’d allow that. But nothing more. The kiss had been a blip in what was to date my most confusing relationship with a man. Was he my landlord? Was he the asshole best friend of my roommate? Or something more? I didn’t know. And because I didn’t know, I was going to play it cool. I was business Sophia tonight—no more shenanigans.

Finally, Max opened the door, and he was out of breath, a grease stain splattered across a casual pale-blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Sorry. I almost burned the lasagna.”

He rushed away and left me standing there with the door open. So I did what any sane person would do and stepped inside. And holy shit…

Max’s house was nothing like Jack’s and my apartment. Our place was nicer than most rentals in San Francisco, but Max’s apartment was like a high-end showroom, only homier.

The hardwood floors were light, with herringbone zigzags, and a gas fireplace roared across the room, surrounded by dark espresso built-in bookcases. A patterned navy rug and an elegant sectional pulled the living room area together, while a ten-person polished wood dining table with upholstered chairs overlooked a stunning view of the neighborhood and trees. A separate hazelnut leather sitting area rested next to a corner window with a view of the Bay and Alcatraz. Everything was elegant yet comfortable looking, without appearing too masculine. And I needed to meet Max’s designer because I was ready to marry her/him.

The ceilings were taller in Max’s place than in my apartment, making Max’s home feel massive. Though glancing around, I could tell it was indeed double the square footage of what Jack and I shared. But the kitchen was the real showstopper. With a built-in wall of hickory wood cabinets in a modern design, an espresso machine, and huge, expensive-looking professional appliances, the kitchen was the diamond centerpiece of the apartment. In the center stood a marble island with cabinets in the same nearly black espresso shade as the bookcases, and four modern, lighter wood barstools pushed up on either side for a bar-height table feel.

Max set a casserole dish on the island, the muscles on his bared forearm bulging distractingly. He nudged the Wolf oven door closed with his socked foot and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Sorry, I thought it would be done by now. Then I realized it was done, and I’d nearly overcooked everything.”

“Do you make food often?” It didn’t seem like it, but who was I to say?

He scratched his jaw, clean-shaven now, and peered nervously at the casserole dish. “No, so I make no guarantees.”

I walked over and checked the food. Hard to go wrong with noodles, marinara sauce, and cheese. “Smells good.”

He glanced up, and I swore his gaze was nervous, which was incredibly strange coming from this man. “Don’t say that until you try it.”

This was a first, seeing Max out of his element. He’d put effort into tonight, and it was oddly charming. “I’m not a cook,” I said, “so it doesn’t take much to impress me.”

“If all else fails,” he said, “I have something else that should impress you.”

“If you say it’s in your bedroom, I’m leaving right now.” I was half joking, but kind of not. Men never failed to surprise me.

A dark look crossed his eyes. “Has a man said that to you before?”

“No, but I’ve had other offers in a similar vein.” I leaned closer and took another whiff of the lasagna, and my stomach rumbled. Between my mom’s rodent woes and work, I’d forgotten to eat lunch.

Max mumbled something under his breath, then said, “I can’t answer for others, but my only motive was a date and nothing more.”